Friday Night Candles
by Loki's Campaign Manager
Summary: "I do not fear hell. I lived it for years. If Satan comes for me, I'll laugh in his face." Most of Venice is sure Shylock has no friends, no daughter, and no conscience. Most of Venice isn't quite right about that. Sequel to Usurer's Mercy.
1. Psalms

**Read This First**

This story is a sequel. This means that if you haven't read _Usurer's Mercy, _which you can find on my author's page, you'll have no idea why everyone's doing what they're doing. Read at your own risk. In terms of warnings, if you can handle _Usurer's Mercy, _you can handle this.

I have based the age of these characters off the actors in my favorite production of Merchant of Venice. In that one, Jessica was in her late teens, Bassanio and Lorenzo and their friends were in their twenties, and Shylock and Antonio were in their forties. Just to give you a visualization.

If anyone would like an explanation for how I'm using pronouns (thou vs. you, etc.) it is at the end of this chapter.

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Now, on with the story!

**Friday Night Candles**

**Chapter 1: Psalms**

I miss Jessica.

She thought I hated her trying to be merry in our dark house. Truthfully, I loved to hear her laugh. But I did not wish to raise a daughter who expected her life to be joyful. As a child, I believed I would be happy when I grew up, and I had been crushed so badly by reality that I became determined never to make that mistake with my own children.

Most of the time, I try to think of Jessica as little as possible. As a devout Christian, she cannot afford to reconcile with me, baptized though I have been. I dearly despise the people who made me a Christian, and myself for giving in to them. But I did want to live, though for what I did not know, then.

But now I am not sorry. Because there is a man in this house who would have died if not for me — a man I once hated, and to some extent still do.

I lean on the wall beside the staircase. There's a wedding in the air; perhaps that's why I cannot help but think of Jessica. My servant Ignazio will be married soon. He and I met with the notary today, and he should be glad I was there, for his mind is as addled as a bad egg — at least in my view. The fool was actually going to accept the first dowry amount proposed by his bride Rosalba's employer. Giacobbe is a miser and Ignazio deserves better, even if he grates on my nerves.

To be fair, I'm quite the miser myself. But I'm hardly interested in being fair, not late at night when I cannot sleep for thoughts of my daughter.

Well, there's no point in dwelling on what I cannot change. I push myself off the wall and turn towards my bedroom door — and stop at the sound of a thump, and then a sob, from the room I hate to enter.

It would be so easy to leave him alone, and that's probably what he would prefer. But I have been deaf to others' distress in the past and it profited me not. 'Tis that impulse — I am impulsive, no one has denied it — that makes me push open the door and walk in.

"I heard you."

Antonio glares at me. He has bruised and bloody knuckles, and there's more blood on my wall. "You would. Get out."

"No. 'Tis my house." I never get tired of that excuse. "Besides, you'll break your hand if you do not take care."

"And that would bother you because...?"

I roll my eyes. "I think we have established by this point that I'm somewhat concerned for your welfare." Those words are easier to say than _I care about you._ "Even if I still despise you."

"I hate you too." Antonio rubs his hand.

"Glad to hear it. Why are you doing this? Have you not been beaten enough?"

"Do you not know what it means to be angry?"

The man is such a fool. "You are truly asking that question? I would bring down this house if I hit the walls every time I went enraged."

Antonio shakes his head. "I have no true reason to...I understand why they did as they did."

I sit down on a nearby stool. "Enlighten me, for I do not. A man who cast you off and a mob who beat you and—"

"Stop it."

"Do tell me how you excuse them."

"How can I do anything else, when I led Bassanio to sin with me in the first place?" Antonio passes a hand over his eyes. "He was young, still is. He could hardly understand what it means to hide what you desire from everyone, knowing if you slip you'll be imprisoned or killed."

That's true, and I had not thought of it. But it still seems to me no justifiable reason.

He continues. "What could I offer him but years of secrecy and fear? Portia could give him everything — a kind wife, riches, no need to worry if what he does is a sin before God. I do not blame him for turning from me to keep her love."

"What of the mob?"

"Would you not pay back a man you believed had forced another? You planned to cut out my heart."

"Who am I, your new model of morality? What kind of God would demand that kind of recompense?"

Antonio half-laughs. "God. In the space of a minute I bless him for giving me life and blame him for the horror of it."

My mouth twists. "'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but find no rest.'"

"What do you mean?"

"'Tis a psalm, you fool. A psalm of David. Surely you have those in your Christian Bible?" I doubt he would recognize my rough translation from the Hebrew if he read it in his own holy text, though.

"A psalm? I have read many, but not that one."

"I knew it by heart once." I lean my elbows on my knees. "No more — but what I do remember... 'For dogs are all around me, a company of evildoers encircles me. My hands and feet have shriveled, I can count all my bones. They stare and gloat over me, they divide my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.'"

There is a silence, then Antonio speaks. "That reminds me of — I do not like your version of the Bible."

"'Tis all the same Bible," I reply, irked. "Read it yourself."

"I should like to, but I doubt you keep a Christian Bible in this house of yours."

"As it happens, I do. It was a present." I roll my eyes at the absent giver.

"Who took a brain fever and bought you a Bible?"

"Brother Rafaele. That cursed priest who instructs me in _the faith." _I had made the mistake, the second time we met, of mentioning I knew a little Latin. "He predicted I would read it so that I could try to prove him wrong about every verse he brings up."

"I'll wager you threw it under a bed and never looked at it again."

I snort. "You'd lose your money. I make a mark on the first page every time he admits to having been mistaken. But you are welcome to the thing, for now."

For a moment, Antonio looks wistful, then he glares. "Do not taunt me with that."

"Much as I enjoy taunting you, I am not, verily." I stand up and march from the room and grab the book from where I dropped it on the floor, hardly caring that a few pages get torn in the process, and walk back to Antonio's room. It rather disturbs me that I have come to think of it as his.

Antonio looks at my Bible, almost greedily. I resist the urge to hold it out of his reach as long as I can. I toss it at him instead, perversely glad when he fumbles and misses and the book gets even more bent. "Here. Have it. Save your soul if you can."

He clutches it as if 'tis a rope thrown to him in a storm. "Ah. I suppose I should — thank you."

"There is no need. I care not for Bibles." I turn around and stride from the room, snapping the door shut behind me. Outside, I lean against the wall and wonder just what I'm doing. Trying to give Antonio comfort is outrageous. He deserves it not. And I do not deserve any credit that may be given to me for doing so. Most of what I have done, I have done in spite, merely to prove to Antonio, or to myself, that I am more merciful than he.

**OoOoO**

"I hate weddings."

"You hate everything."

I shoot Antonio a poisonous look over the spices I'm grinding in the mortar. "This would hurt if I threw it at your head."

"Well, I still think you should use the sugared almonds."

The worst part of this particular wedding is my nemesis trying to order me around. However little I know about marriage, he knows less. "I do not have sugared almonds."

"Yes, you do," Antonio says, undeterred. "You bought them yesterday." I thought he had not seen that. 'Tis the worst time for Antonio to start being observant. He's usually obnoxiously self-preoccupied. "And what's wrong with weddings in any case?"

"They make people happy. Without any bloodshed at all." An unbiased observer would no doubt point out that even bloodshed does not guarantee joy on my part these days. But I dislike impartial observers, and do not let them anywhere near me.

Antonio ignores this. "If you really did not want Ignazio to marry, you could have stopped it. He's your servant."

"If he wants to commit the idiotic act of marrying a poor girl with an illegitimate child, I'm not going to—"

"And you helped him negotiate with Rosalba's master."

_"Someone _had to drag that drunkard in front of a notary and make him pledge to pay what he had promised."

"The same _someone _who came up with money so Ignazio could buy the clothes and sheets he's supposed to provide for his wife?"

"I'll slaughter the next person who brings this up."

"Who was the first?"

"Brother Rafaele, damn him. His yammering makes my ears ring."

"Do not curse priests!"

"Go take poison!" We subside into glares and mutterings. There's always something to fight over.

Ignazio dashes into the kitchen, nearly knocking over two pans of rising bread. Nerves apparently make him clumsy. I spare a moment to pray for Rosalba's good health so we never have to go through another marriage.

"If thou break'st much more, there'll be not a dish left in the house," I inform him.

"Do you think it will be all right, Master Shylock?" Ignazio hovers around me nervously.

"Thou hast already signed that contract," I grumble, checking to see if the fish I'm cooking is done. "It had better be all right."

Ignazio waves away the small matter of legal documents. "I mean the wedding night. Could you tell me how—"

No. No. I refuse to be consulted about this. It has been years since I did anything of...that sort. I cut him off. "Why, by all the gold in Venice, art thou asking _me?"_

"My friends always talk about what the best thing a woman can do to you is. But I already know all about that, because there was a time—"

I cover my ears. "Do not tell me!" I catch Antonio trying to restrain laughter, and mime slashing a throat with a knife.

Ignazio continues. "But I do not know what the best thing a man can do to a woman is. I just want Rosalba...I mean...I want it to be well for her."

Irritated, I cast my eyes upwards. He cannot very well ask Antonio; the man is as fond of women in his bed as I am of the inside of a church door. "Do not go too fast. Thou art not bedding her to the clock. And if she seems afraid, speak with her first. Thou talk'st too much as it is; thou canst put that to good use." There's a knock at the door and I move to answer it.

My servant trails after me, chattering. "That sounds like good advice. My friends never know what they are talking about. They told me I would be quiet if they pushed me in the canal. They were wrong." He goes back towards the kitchen.

"Of course they were." I go to open the door and yell one last piece of advice after him. "Thou canst ask her what she likes. She has a child; she's no virgin." I turn, and see Brother Rafaele on my steps.

"Signor Shylock! It pleases me greatly to be sought out for this!" Brother Rafaele steps over my threshold, smiling.

Antonio appears in the doorway, pale as a ghost, and shoots upstairs at the sight of the priest. I'm not terribly surprised. The last time they saw each other, Brother Rafaele tried to take Antonio's confession. Said thorn in my side gave him an earful about suicide and then collapsed unconscious. Besides, I have noticed Antonio hates strange footsteps.

Brother Rafaele blinks at me. "What did I do?"

"You did nothing. He's an idiot."

"That's not terribly charitable," Brother Rafaele points out. "The Bible instructs us to treat others as we would be treated ourselves."

"If I'm being a fool, I would rather someone told me so."

"Very well, I shall remember that for the future. Where's the bridegroom?"

"Here!" Ignazio hops up and down. I swear he's truly six years old. A six-year-old who will enthusiastically bed a woman tonight. I shudder.

"We must speak," Brother Rafaele tells Ignazio. "'Tis best to instruct a man of what marital duties are required by our faith."

"Oh, maybe you can help me. Master Shylock says that on my wedding night—"

"No." I cut him off. "Absolutely not. I'll crack open thy rib cage and feast on thy entrails."

Brother Rafaele shakes his head. "Signor Shylock?"

"What?"

"You are being a fool."

I'm undoubtedly going to hell for all the horrible things I am imagining doing to everyone in my house right now. But I resigned myself to that some time ago.

**OoOoO**

How, by every ducat I possess, did _I _end up holding Rosalba's baby? Antonio must have dropped a drug in my wine. Except that he was hiding upstairs the whole time, being the accused criminal that he is. This puts me in even more of a foul mood. I enjoy being able to blame Antonio for everything.

Of course, I myself am at fault for this, offering to take Teresa — that's her name, I recall — for a few hours while Ignazio and Rosalba consummate their marriage. Ignazio was so terribly excited about that, I finally advised him to sew his own mouth shut.

Now Teresa is sobbing. She's not wet and was fed only recently. Remembering what I can of when Jessica was little, I put her over my shoulder and try to bring up any air in her stomach. That works, thank any God that may be looking after us. I have little experience with infants.

I rock and hum to Teresa, wondering what will become of her. I doubt the world will be kinder to a half-Moorish girl than to a Jew. And she cannot convert, cannot change who she is. I only hope that Ignazio and Rosalba will let her know that they, at least, are not ashamed to have her.

At least there are two of them. I try not to think (though at times I cannot help it) of how my life would have been different if Leah had lived past Jessica's second birthday. I recalled my friend Tubal and I teasing our prospective brides, they mocking us in their turn. Four years we had, four scant years of more happiness than I had ever known or have known since. If it had lasted, would I have still become so hateful?

At times I looked for love elsewhere, but I had no energy for true courting and no interest in being married for my money. Perhaps I ought to regret that. At least Jessica would have had a mother. But I cannot shake the idea that foisting myself off on any woman would have been a mistake, being as bitter as I am. And as for prostitutes — well, I found they disgust me.

"What are you doing?" 'Tis Antonio, damn him.

"Trying to get this blasted child to fall asleep so I do not strangle her. Why are you down here now?"

"I'm sick of studying the wall. And I wondered what you were humming. Your tongue is more accustomed to insults."

"You mean you can hear through the rot stuck in your ears?" Teresa stirs, complaining, and I resume rocking her. "'Tis a children's song. Surely you had a childhood. Or did you spring into this world a fully formed sinner?"

Antonio shrugs. "No, but I made up for lost time later. Being with men by the time I was—" he cuts himself off. "What of you, then? Fully formed sinner, or only three quarters?"

I snort. "Coveting what was my neighbors' since the age of ten. It was bad enough they were richer, they had to be true citizens too."

"What?"

"True citizens. Not aliens." I spit the word. "Surely you recall that court day. If an alien seeks the life of a citizen..." I trail off, and, more for something to do than anything else, I begin humming to Teresa again.

"You are good with children," Antonio finally says.

"Hardly. I learned what I had to after Leah died. She was sick well before that, so I did what I could to relieve her."

"How was she sick? I mean...I apologize. You do not have to answer that."

I shrug. "'Tis by far one of the least offensive questions you have asked me. The doctors say she had a tumor."

"Do you miss her?"

"Would you miss Bassanio if he died? Since you are so determined to love him?"

Antonio shudders. "Death for Bassanio? Do not talk of such things."

"My point exactly." I pause. "Perhaps if Leah had lived, Jessica would not have run off so. Run off to be married in a _Christian _ceremony..."

"You just witnessed a Christian ceremony and it did not kill you," Antonio says testily. "What's so special about a Jewish one?"

"That's different," I snap. "Yes, mayhap that ceremony was decent. But it was decent because there were people to celebrate and there was money with which to start their lives. What friend of Jessica's was at her wedding, and what coin did Lorenzo have then?"

"Would you not be reconciled with them now?" Antonio says cautiously. "Jessica misses you."

I jerk, nearly waking Teresa up. "How in heaven or hell would you know a thing like that?"

"We lived at Belmont for a few weeks together before they took a house. I heard her asking Lorenzo one day if he remembered which creditor she traded your turquoise ring to, to see if she could get it back. And she has not lost the habit of not working on Saturdays. I think she might be glad to see you. Would you be glad to see her?"

"No. Yes. I know not." I change Teresa's position in my arms. "I should like to see that she is all right. As it happens, I should like to rip Lorenzo's arms off at the same time, but I suppose I might restrain myself."

"You had better."

"Do not tell me what to do."

"'Tis only fair. You have been telling me what to do all this time."

"It profits you," I retort.

"It hardly profits _you,_" Antonio points out. "Unless you call a Shabbat with a smashed set of dishes profit."

"Oh, I do. We need to do that again."

"What, Shabbat?"

"No, smashing dishes." I raise an eyebrow. "Why did you think of Shabbat first?" Antonio mutters something. "I cannot hear you."

"All right! I enjoyed it!" Antonio glares at me. "No wonder, it reduces you from murderous carrion to slightly less murderous carrion."

"Ah, a miracle," I drawl. "I understand your awe. I'm rather puzzled by it myself."

**OoOoO**

"Bargaining for flour?" The voice has a smile in it. I turn to see Tubal, my old colleague, standing there with his wife Naomi. 'Tis she who spoke, I know. "You can use all the food you can get. You are thin as a rail, Shylock."

I have not seen Naomi since I converted, and I'm sure I did not deserve her kindness even before that. "'Tis my customary state. No doubt I'll starve to death someday."

Tubal rolls his eyes. "Good morning to you too."

The shopkeeper takes my coin and gestures Naomi forward. Soon they are arguing cheerfully over the price, and Tubal turns to me cautiously. "The...man in your house. Did you find help for him, or did he sojourn elsewhere on his own?"

"He has sojourned nowhere." Much to my aggravation. "And he insists upon starving himself to annoy me."

"You mean...he's still there?" Tubal looks startled. "And you are actually trying to make him eat?"

"I do not want a corpse on my hands." Actually, I do, but Antonio appears far too happy at the prospect of dying. I therefore oppose it with vehemence on principle.

"Well, I'm glad to see you have something to live for," Tubal says dryly. "A corpse-free household certainly is a desirable goal. But forgive me for doubting that's your only intention."

Resisting the urge to tell Tubal just where he can put his doubts, I glance over the marketplace instead. And then I see him.

His clothes are still fine — finer, in fact, than they were before. But it does him no good. Thin, hollow-eyed, a face far too lined. He's barely recognizable, but I do know him. 'Tis Bassanio.

What, by my oath, is he doing here, looking so? The last I heard, he had all a young man could want. I had assumed that Antonio's absence would be no real trouble to him. After all, if he'd truly cared for the man, he would not have betrayed him in the first place.

Now I look at his tormented appearance and wonder if I was wrong. Perhaps he regrets his actions. Perhaps he still loves Antonio. Not that it would do either of them any good. Would it?

"Shylock, what are you staring at?"

I jerk my eyes away. "I have to go. Tell your wife I do not plan to die before you come and dine with me again." And with this harebrained invitation, I plunge into the crowd.

**OoOoO**

I glare at the crucifix on Brother Rafaele's wall. "Do you priests get some kind of pleasure out of seeing a man being tortured, or is that there solely to sicken me?"

"'Tis there so we never forget the sacrifice God made for us," Brother Rafaele says patiently. "He sent his only Son to redeem mankind, beyond all costs."

"So Christ had to die to save men from their sins? What happened to God's eternal mercy? Was that suffering truly necessary for forgiveness?"

"Very well, Signor Shylock. If you would show me your theology, choose the first verse we read yourself. I'm not unwilling to listen to you." Brother Rafaele points at the crumpled Bible I have in my hands.

Despite myself, I open it. I recall quoting the story of Jacob's sheep to Antonio and Bassanio that day on the Rialto, when they entered into the bond. But that was merely to get under their skin. I do not recall the last time I read the Torah for purposes of faith, and now all I have is this Gospel. Worse than nothing, I often think.

The psalms are not full of woe, many are songs of praise, but I cannot help being drawn to those of the afflicted. Though it takes a bit of hunting, I eventually find the one I seek. Brother Rafaele is watching me, and his attentiveness is surprising. I tip the Bible properly towards the light, and read.

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, let my cry come to you. Do not hide your face from me in the day of my distress. For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. All day long my enemies taunt me, those who deride me use my name for a curse. For I eat ashes like bread, and mingle tears with my drink, for you have lifted me up and thrown me aside." I stop.

"Does it not go on to describe God's compassion?" Brother Rafaele asks quietly.

"It does." I shut the Bible with a snap. "But I know naught of compassion. I receive it not, I have it not."

"That seems untrue to me."

"All that's given to me, all that I give, is done in spite or out of necessity." I close my eyes briefly. "No God will forgive me when I carry all this anger and hate. I am beyond redemption, and you would hardly waste your time on me if the Duke had not declared that I must be instructed."

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Oh, I expect I could have come up with a convenient excuse to have one of my brothers in faith take over your instruction. Though I would not, for the sake of their sanity if nothing else."

I find his assurance that I could drive a priest out of his mind to be rather comforting. "You might as well accept I'll never be a good Christian."

"I'll be more than contented if you are a good man. Unfortunately, I have little control over that." Brother Rafaele takes his own Bible off the table and flips through it, stopping in what I can see upside down is the so-called Gospel of Matthew, and begins to read. "Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it."

He sets the book aside and looks at me intently. "When my fathers speak about this, they think it is we who have chosen, we who walk the narrow path, because we have dedicated our lives to faith. But I myself — I have assurance of God, and sleep untroubled by nightmares, and none taunt or revile me. So perhaps my road is truly wide and easy. I know not."

"They say, then, that the path to heaven is not easy?" I recall the words of the lawyer who defended Antonio in the court, that mercy dropped as the gentle rain in heaven upon the place beneath. Does this Bible say the opposite, then? "Do they bless us for choosing a more difficult path?"

"I should say so, yes."

I wonder why these Christians do not pay more attention to their own Bible.

**OoOoO**

_"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."_

I might have expected some snide comment on the Shabbat prayer, but instead Antonio is staring silently into the candles, having already lowered his hands from his face. I was secretly shocked when he did that — shocked that he remembered I had done it last time, and that he had not neglected it solely to offend me.

Even if I do not truly believe in God anymore, it seems wrong to quarrel over a holy ritual, and so I have resigned myself to not talking at all. I retrieve our wine cups and say the prayer over them. Once that is done, I have to resist downing the whole cup in one mouthful, just to drink away this bizarre situation. It would likely only make matters worse.

'Tis Antonio who breaks the silence. "What's that called again?" He gestured at the covered challah on the table. "And why do you cover it?"

"Challah. There are many reasons 'tis covered. I was taught that challah is to remind us of the manna we received when we wandered in the wilderness. That manna was delivered to us covered in dew, so we cover the challah to imitate it." There. I can speak without insults. Even if I dislike it.

After I remove the cloth and say the blessing, we fall to eating. Antonio will not look at me, and I roll a piece of challah between my fingers. Part of me despises Antonio for somewhat ruining my feeling of rebelliousness over celebrating the holiday. Another part is smug that he, a supposedly devout Christian, seems to enjoy this.

And a third part — though I hate to admit it — wants Antonio here. To fight with, insult, and care for him in equal measure has given me reasons to live. It reminds me of caring for Jessica, in the years before I grew bitter enough for her to draw away from me.

The thought of Jessica makes me blurt out a question I have wondered about for eight months. "Your friends offered to trade their wives for you in that courtroom. Do you think they truly would have?"

Antonio finally looks at me. "I'm not sure. I know it bothers Portia, though."

"What? How would she have heard it?"

"Obviously, she — oh, of course you do not know. Portia was the lawyer who defended me, disguised as a man. Nerissa, Gratiano's wife, was her clerk."

My jaw drops. "What — I — that's—"

Antonio's face twitches a bit. "Yes, that was my reaction too."

I shake my head. "Then she did hear. Well, if she married Bassanio after that, she's a fool."

"Do not insult her!"

"Oh, shut your mouth. Can you really expect me to like the woman?"

"Can you expect me not to? She saved my life."

I choose to ignore this. "If those Christians truly would have handed over their wives for your life, how can you fault me for wishing my daughter had not married one?"

"They were being impulsive, I'm sure."

"You just said you were _not_ sure." I stare. "Are you trying to reassure me?"

Now 'tis Antonio's turn to ignore what I say. "Lorenzo is a good man."

"Hmm. You and I obviously have different ideas of what makes a good man."

"What is your idea, then?" Antonio asks sardonically.

I am about to snap out some provoking answer when I realize I am not truly positive. "I do not know. What's yours?"

Antonio looks surprised. No doubt he also expected the provoking answer. "I once thought it was those who followed God's laws. I still do, actually. I just am not sure what those laws are anymore."

'Tis odd for me to count confusion, ignorance, as a blessing on either of our parts. But I do. While we are both unsure it leaves room to — leaves room to what? Know each other better? That's the last thing I want. I want Antonio gone, out of my house, and I want these disturbing thoughts to go with him.

I have always been good at lying to myself.

**Author's Note:**

Since I don't know any Latin — and very little Hebrew, for that matter — I can't translate what these folks would have actually read in their holy texts. So these quotes are based on my own copy of the Bible, the New Revised Standard Version, and various online sources. Shylock quotes Psalm 22 to Antonio. He reads an abridged version of Psalm 102 to Brother Rafaele. Said priest reads a part of Matthew 7.

My use of pronouns: I follow the standard rules. A person uses "thou," or a variant of it, to address a social inferior like a servant or a child, an intimate like a close friend or spouse, or if they want to insult somebody by being overly familiar. A person uses "you," or a variant of it, to address an equal in a more formal situation. Most of the relationships in this story are pretty clear-cut, except that between Shylock and Antonio, seeing as they're in the I-sort-of-respect-you-even-though-I-don't-like-you stage.


	2. The Greatest Sins

**Author's Note**

I try to be as historically accurate as I can. Inevitably I'll slip up, and my readers should feel free to correct me. However, when Shakespeare bases something in the original play off an untrue assumption _he _held about Venice, I'm going to go with that. It's fanfic, after all.

Since it appears Shakespeare didn't know there was a ghetto for Jews in Venice, he had Jessica run away with Lorenzo at night (when it would have been locked). Which presents a dilemma for this author, seeing as Jews couldn't own property outside the ghetto...I must throw up my hands and conclude that Shylock somehow rented a house somewhere.

This chapter has some point-of-view switching. I think I've made the transitions fairly clear.

**Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!**

**Chapter 2: The Greatest Sins**

Market days are truly delightful. Everyone shoving and cursing at each other. A multitude of feet stretched out to trip me and elbows to jab at me. The fish-heads and discarded bones tossed from the stalls, the hawkers squalling in my face, and the rotten vegetables that occasionally fly through the air. Nothing quite like it to sweeten my mood.

Sarcasm aside, there are a few things I enjoy about buying food. I like squeezing every ducat I can out of the shopkeepers and hearing them mutter about how if everyone were like me, their families would starve. I like cutting in front of people and asking them what they are going to do about it. And I like it when someone falls in a canal or is attacked by pigeons and I can jeer at them.

And I'm taking the opportunity on this trip to do all three.

I have Rosalba with me, to buy proper sewing materials (of which we had almost none) and I can tell she's horribly embarrassed. I do not care, but I do refrain from mocking _her _when she slips and tears her skirt. Well, mostly.

"Thou hast been rather too neat lately," I inform her as she takes my reluctantly-offered hand and struggles to her feet. "I'm glad to see thee trying to correct that. Do continue."

"I'm sorry. It will not happen again."

I roll my eyes. Everyone tries my patience, and I'm not about to admit that's as much my fault as the world's. "Highly unlikely. This is a market, thou may'st have heard of them. 'Tis difficult to walk, much less stand."

Rosalba ducks her head. I might think I was truly bothering her, but I have noticed 'tis a habit.

"Why dost thou do that?" I ask as we walk to the edge of the market. Not tactful, but tact matters little to me. "Thou never look'st anyone in the face, hardly."

"Does it displease you?"

"I care not. Stare at the ground all thou wish'st. But I cannot see why it appeals to thee."

Rosalba clutches her sewing supplies to her chest. "People think I'm furniture when I'm quiet and do not look at them. I know what happens to girls like me who are noticed."

"Staying silent will not protect thee from harm."

"What good would speaking do, when I am never believed?"

I pause in the street, ready to make some kind of argument — what, or why I am bothering, I know not — when I realize that someone behind me stopped at the same time I did. I glance over my shoulder to see if I recognize anyone. I do not. In fact, no one that I can see is standing still, they are all pinpoint-focused on their destinations or companions.

"What is it?" Rosalba asks.

"'Tis nothing." I gesture her to follow me.

At twenty paces someone jostles me and I drop my basket. Cursing in two of the many languages I know oaths in, I stoop to pick up the contents. And realize, as I grab the last of them, that the same footsteps have stopped. I whip around, and, again, see no one.

That is odd, and it worries me. I have been followed before, and it has never led to any good.

"Master Shylock," Rosalba says quietly to me. "I think there is a man behind us. I saw him disappear around that corner."

I straighten up, gripping my basket. "Walk. Do not run. There are many on the streets between here and home." I keep my voice steady and calm. "Whoever it is can do us no harm." We start off. I ignore my own advice and move a good bit faster than usual. "Did'st thou recognize him?"

"He is no one I know."

If there truly is a man following us, he seems uninterested in drawing nearer, and we arrive back at my house with no mishaps. Once inside, I lock the door and feel somewhat better.

There is sobbing from the kitchen, and Ignazio emerges, looking helpless. "She began to cry when I cleared out the ashes, Rosalba. I did everything thou told'st me to, but she will not sleep again."

I snarl profane words — no doubt instilling confidence in everyone — and stomp up the stairs. And nearly step on Antonio, who's fumbling around near one of my chests. "What are you doing?"

Antonio waves an ancient rag in the air, sending dust everywhere. "Cleaning. I think."

I sneeze violently and glare. "You _think _wrong, obviously. What's the idea? Dusting?"

"That was the plan." Antonio swipes randomly at the top of one chest. "I'll explode if I have nothing to do, and Ignazio said I could help. He did not mention that you would show up and order me around. Again."

"Did he give you more than one of those?"

"Yes." He grabs another cloth from the floor. "Are you going to show me how 'tis done?"

I snatch the rag from his hand. "You apparently need me to. Do you not even know you must shake the cloth out the window to clear the dust from it?"

Antonio blinks. "Oh. That would make sense."

"Yes, that's what I said when Ignazio told me." I wrench open the window.

"Why do you not keep those open all the time? 'Tis July. Too warm in here."

"I hate sunshine."

"What? Afraid you'll shrivel up like a prune?" Antonio goes over to the window.

"As long as we are speaking of sour grapes, look to yourself. You are positively vinegar already." I run the cloth neatly across the top of the chest. "See, you cannot just wave it in the air and hope the dust disappears on its own."

Antonio returns with a clean rag and imitates the process. He's terrible at it. So was I at first, but I'm not about to tell him so. In fact, I'm about to come up with some insult about how an out-of-water fish is more industrious, when Ignazio comes bounding up.

"Master Shylock, there's a man to see you in the room downstairs. I like him."

"Thou like'st everyone. It would please me more if thou had'st a mortal enemy." I sigh. 'Tis probably Tubal, I should go and be courteous.

Ignazio grabs my abandoned dust-cloth. "Do not worry, Signor Antonio. You do not have to talk if you do not wish. I shall do it all for you." He dissolves into chatter I have no interest in listening to.

The thought of cooking for six instead of four, if Tubal and Naomi come over, pleases me greatly. I determine to remember that and not accidentally insult Tubal. He's not Antonio, and therefore I have no need to set him up like a target at which to shoot arrows. Arrows on fire. I walk into the room.

And nearly fall backwards, completely stunned. Because 'tis not Tubal standing there; 'tis, of all people, Bassanio. And he looks even worse up close. Gaunt-eyed, face twisted with days of fear, mouth pressed tight.

"What are you doing in my house?" I demand. "You and yours are nothing to me."

"Where is he?" Bassanio's voice sounds as bad as the rest of him, quiet and hoarse.

Now I'm puzzled. "Where is who?"

"Antonio. Thou know'st of him."

"What should I know?" I ask warily. "That he's wasting your wife's money at Belmont?"

A look of anguish flickers across Bassanio's face — replaced by fury. "Do not pretend thou dost not know. He's here."

Curse it, curse it by maggot-ridden corpses. How did Bassanio find out? Antonio is an accused criminal and I'm hiding him. If people knew of this, it could mean prison or worse. "Here? Why would he be here? Enemies, bond, pound of flesh, conversion, surely you remember?"

Bassanio's fists clench. "Thou would'st do him harm for that. I cannot think of a man less likely to show him mercy."

"What makes you think he would ask it of me?" I do my best to sound irritated, not half-panicked. "I have not seen a hair of him for months, and I dearly hope it stays that way."

"That's a lie! If thou dost not tell me where—"

_"Bassanio?"_

"Antonio." Bassanio takes in his friend's appearance at the door to the room, still pale and worn from fear and refusing to eat, and recoils as if he's been slapped. "What has happened to thee?"

"Do not worry for me," Antonio says, low. "I never wanted that."

Fear clenches in my stomach. 'Tis clear enough now that Bassanio has no interest in dragging his former lover up before the Council of Ten. I, however, am another matter.

"Shylock, would you please leave us alone?" Antonio doesn't take his eyes off Bassanio's face.

"What will you tell him?"

"'Tis none of your business. I believe the point of a private conversation is that 'tis _private." _

"A one-way trip to the gallows is my business," I snap. "And if you tell him I gave you your scars, that's exactly where I'll end up."

Antonio whips around and glares at me. "Do you jest? Do you find me that ungrateful? They can try and hang you. They'll have to get past me first. Now, will you _go away?" _

I choose not to dignify that with a reply, and slam the door on the way out.

**Antonio**

I'm completely astonished that Bassanio is here, and more astonished at my feelings over it. Half of me wants to embrace him, and the other half cringes at the very idea. I find my voice. "I do not understand. How did'st thou know where to look for me?"

"I have been searching since two weeks after thou left Belmont. I—"

"But that was more than a month ago!" I interrupt, shocked. "Thou hast kept it up for so long?"

"What else could I do?" Bassanio looks ready to reach for me, but aborts the gesture. I'm part disappointed, part grateful. "Ever since I lied about what we had done, I have longed to take it back. I came to Venice to put things to rights, if I could. As much as is possible."

"Dost thou mean I have nothing to fear, now?" I ask, fairly sure I'm misunderstanding. "They will not send me to prison? Will not—"

Bassanio looks ill. "By heaven, they will not. I never charged thee for anything before the law. And I told our friends the truth. They have been looking as well."

"But how didst thou know where to find me?"

"There was a priest — Brother Rafaele, I think his name was. He mentioned Shylock had a man in his house called Antonio." Bassanio shakes his head. "He seemed to think Shylock was giving thee charity."

"Thou did'st not tell him otherwise?" I cut in, upset.

"Of course I did. He doubted the truth of what I said. He must have been deceived somehow."

"No. Thou dost not understand. He has—" I stop. How am I supposed to explain this to Bassanio? He knows nothing of what has passed between us since the trial. I wonder if he will think my mind addled. "Bassanio, I will tell all, but thou must think no more of hurting Shylock. He has done naught to deserve it."

"Then how is it thou art practically a skeleton? I have never seen thee look worse."

I have never spoken, truly, of what happened to me, of why I have nightmares and half-starve myself. It was the doctor who told Shylock, and none besides them know. "My first night back — I knew I had to leave Venice soon, but I could not think where else to go, so I returned to my house. That night, two men broke in. I did not hear them until they—" I stop. How can I speak of this?

"What did they do?" Bassanio asks quietly. "Were they there to rob thee?"

I laugh, and it sounds unnaturally loud. "They were thieves, yes. They stole my health, my dignity, and my sanity in the space of about ten minutes."

"Antonio, art thou sick? Is that why thou art talking so? How can any man steal—"

"Thou dost not know, and I pray thou never will." I cannot tell the whole story, not to Bassanio. He thinks of me as a man who stood strong, who loved him, who would not falter even on the delivery of the bond. And I would prefer that it stay that way. I have no wish to inspire horror, or worse, pity, in him.

"Do not spare me. What happened? It punishes me to hear of thy pain."

"There is little to say of my pain. They dragged me out of the house and beat me." Bassanio goes white and I hasten. "Shylock and the doctor, they brought remedies to me. I recovered."

"I do not think thou understand'st. Thou hast nothing to fear from Shylock now, he cannot hurt thee. There is no need to defend him."

"Yes, there is. I have taken refuge under his roof, screamed insults and curses in his face, coughed up blood and fainted and put everyone in danger by being here. And yet he's kept me safe and demanded nothing in return."

"I understand none of this. Why would Shylock do any of that?"

"I have no idea and if he's to be believed, neither does he." I look at Bassanio. "Am I truly free to leave? Thou wilt not call the law down on me?"

"I never thought of such a thing, I promise. And if I can help...my guess is thou want'st nothing from me now, but if there's anything I can do, please tell me."

"What I want is for thee to go back to Portia," I tell him, pain making my chest hurt. I'm losing Bassanio again, and there's a part of me that longs for him to stay here in Venice. But the truth is, verily, that he lost me first. I can never truly trust him again.

I do not know if I can truly trust anyone. Not after what's happened.

"Go home to Portia. Tell her I'm sorry we caused her pain. And be happy, if thou can'st. Do not think about the time when we loved each other. It profits neither of us."

Bassanio swallows, then clears his throat. "'Tis true. We seem to have caused more grief than joy. Gratiano and I will go back to Belmont, as thou say'st. Wilt thou—?"

"I'll go back to my house. Eventually." The thought sickens me. I never want to walk through that door again, not after what was done to me beyond it. "Do Lorenzo and Jessica still keep their house here in Venice?"

"They do, and Lorenzo's been helping us search for thee."

"Would they allow me to stay for a time, dost thou think?"

"I should think so. I will show thee where to go, if thou wish'st, now."

Now? I'm suddenly ready to collapse in terror. Leave the house? Walk the streets again? All I can seem to remember about the world outside is a haze of pain and immobilizing panic. None of the joy my reason is telling me it once held. I do not want to go.

But I have to.

I take a breath to steady myself. "Come, wait in the hall. I'm going to talk to them." What I'll say I have no idea, but I must. "It will not be long." I walk ahead of him out of the room, and push open the kitchen door, where Ignazio is scrubbing a pot and Shylock is glaring at the wall.

"He told me 'tis safe," I say after a moment. "I was never charged under the law."

Ignazio peers over the rim of the pot. "You are leaving, then, are you not?" He waits for no reply. "'Tis a pity. Master Shylock will miss you."

"Be quiet or I'll drown thee in the canal," Shylock orders without looking at him. Nor at me.

The threat has as much effect on Ignazio as usual, which is to say, none at all. "I hope your friend is sorry for not helping you before. Do not forget to eat, or we'll drag you back here. Of course, Master Shylock's cooking has probably spoiled you, but no help for that."

"The canal is very deep," Shylock informs him, eyes still trained on some invisible crack in the wall. "And I know many places I could hide thy body. So shut thy mouth."

I look at Ignazio. "My thanks. For the help thou hast given."

"Thank _me _not." Ignazio points at Shylock. "Thank _him."_

What, by all the saints, am I supposed to say? I have no idea, but I must speak. Shylock deserves more than to have me walk out without a word.

"You have given me more than I can ever repay," I mutter eventually.

"I never asked for your payment," Shylock hisses through gritted teeth. "Go live among the Christians. See if they are better than we sinners."

"I doubt you'll take this as a compliment, but you are a better Christian than most. You might curse priests and celebrate heathen rituals but you saved my life even though you hate me." I pause. "If anyone tries to hurt _you _— more than they already have, that is — I'll help you, if I can. You have only to ask." Before he can snarl at me again, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.

Bassanio is by the door. Instead of waiting until I'm ready, for I know I never will be, I push it open and walk outside.

Light. Streets. People. It all frightens the breath half out of me and I claw for the house wall. Just the sun, I tell myself. Just a street. Just men and women going about their business. No one will hurt you, not here, not now, they have no reason for it. I do not believe any of this, but I cannot hide forever.

"Art thou well?" Bassanio asks cautiously.

"Not exactly, but I will be." I must be. "Show me the way."

**OoOoO**

I'm staring at the wall again.

'Tis amusing, in a hellish sort of way. I spent two months in Shylock's house wishing I could leave. Wishing I did not have to sit up there in that room with the quiet gnawing at my ears. Wishing that when I did venture out, Ignazio would take his babble elsewhere. Wishing I could get away from Shylock and his sarcasm and his impiety.

Now I have left, and there is no more danger, and nothing to keep me from doing what I please. But I'm doing very little, and I cannot but recall my own words from that day on the Rialto, when Bassanio came to tell me of Portia.

_In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you, but how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn._

Lorenzo and Jessica were glad to have me to stay, and everyone is kind, and obliging, and instead of being properly grateful to them, I find myself wondering if they care. Because they do not kick their way into my room, or constantly try to prove me wrong, or insult me...Why do I feel so drained when I do not have Shylock to argue with?

"Signor Antonio? Are you alright?" I look around to see Jessica standing in the doorway, brow wrinkled. "You have been there so long. Is there anything I can do to help?"

I'm about to make some excuse about being tired when I realize I _do _wish to speak to her, though not about my own condition. "You might sit with me awhile."

Jessica pulls up a chair next to me. "I'm glad to. I would help you, but I must confess I know not how."

"I appreciate it, but do not worry for me." There is probably need to be worried, but I can think of no remedy she could give. "I'm pleased you seem to be so happy."

She beams. "Lorenzo is the best husband a woman could wish for."

"I expected no less of him." A thought occurs to me. "Do his friends treat you well?"

"Of course." But she looks away.

"As much as it would grieve me to know if they did not, it would not surprise me. And if that is so, perhaps you should speak to Lorenzo of it."

Jessica shakes her head. "'Tis nothing like that. They mean no harm. But some have developed a joke where they ask Lorenzo why he does not serve pork at table. He laughs them off, but it humiliates me, for the truth is, I am not sure how well I could stomach it."

"That seems thoughtless to me, that they should talk so."

"Perhaps it is. But not all are like that. And I am growing to be friends with some of their wives." She smiles. "When they learned I had no mother, they were quick to be kind. Mayhap you know not — my mother died when I was young."

"I did know. In fact, I was wondering..." I trail off.

"What were you wondering?"

Where do I begin? I have told no one of what happened in that house, no one but Bassanio even knows where I was. Few know why I left Belmont, I doubt Lorenzo does, and Jessica certainly does not. And mostly I prefer it that way, but I cannot ask her my question without explanation. "I stayed with your father when I came back to Venice."

"What?" She laughs nervously. "I thought you said you stayed with my father."

"I did." I half-smile. "It sounds insane, I know."

"When you came, you — you looked sick. My father did not—"

"No, he did nothing to me," I hasten to say. "In truth, he gave me aid. I was in danger and he — I don't pretend to understand it. Especially since we barely left off insulting each other, and our choice of friends, and our religions, and who let the water boil over..." I shake my head.

"He helped you?"

"I would be dead if not for him," I say honestly. "More than once."

I see hope amidst the confusion on her face. "He's repented, then? Of his sins? I find it difficult to face Lorenzo's friends at times, you see. They still look at me and see a Jew's daughter. But if my father was truly sorry, I would not care what they thought of him."

"I know not his thoughts. Only his actions." I pause. "I suppose I wished to know him better, by asking you. We rarely spoke of ourselves, but I confess myself curious about his family. About your life, before you left."

Jessica frowns. "There is little to tell. A husband without a wife, a girl without a mother, neither knowing how to get along without her? Many a man or woman could tell you that story."

"But I do not know his, or yours. If speaking of your childhood causes you pain, of course you must not. I should like to hear, though."

"I suppose..." She tilts her head to one side. "In truth, I hardly remember my mother. My father's friends say he cared for her, deeply, but I find it hard to imagine him feeling for anyone what Lorenzo and I feel for each other. He seemed to think showing love made you weak." Jessica stops a moment, then goes on. "Perhaps that was why I left. Not just because he showed me no affection, but because I had no one to show affection to. Anything I did, he was suspicious of, as if he believed people only did things for what they could personally gain."

"He said he loved you, and your mother." I do not mean to say this, but it falls out of my mouth regardless. "I only wish he had said it to you."

"Why would he tell you such a thing?"

"I asked. Rudely, as it happens. I was trying to provoke him. Later, he told me she died of a tumor."

Jessica nodded. "That is what they say. I, too, wish he would tell me that he loved me. Mayhap then I would not..."

"Would not what?" I prompt when she does not go on.

"I love Lorenzo, and I know he cares for me as well. I do know that, but every time I begin to feel comfortable, I ask myself how anyone could truly love me, if my own father could not."

Unsurprisingly, as it is a frequent state, I find myself angry at Shylock. "You must not think that. If he failed to show you kindness, that was his fault. You are not to blame."

"'Tis good of you to say so." Jessica exhales. "But I tell myself that over and over again, and it does not help. When I was a girl, I used to wish I would stop growing, for it seemed that the older I got, the more spiteful my father became. Though I know now it was not me he resented. We lived outside the ghetto, you know, and I think that made it easier for the debtors to hurt him."

"Were you ever afraid for yourself? That the debtors would hurt you?" I stop. "I am sorry. I should not have asked."

For a moment, Jessica's face twists in pain. "I...I remember the exact day I decided I would marry Lorenzo. He brought me token after token and swore vow after vow, swore to protect me as my father never had. I grew angry with him over that, and said my father could shield me just as well. So I went to him and asked what would happen if a man were to beat me. I wanted him to say he would come and rescue me, but..." She trails off.

"But what?"

"He said if only one man came to beat me, I should run and scream, and he told me the places to hit or kick him if he grabbed me. But he said if there were many, I should just do as they told me. Give them my money or whatever they wanted and pray they would not hit me. If they knocked me down, he said, I should curl up and cover my head and never cry out and give them the satisfaction." She closes her eyes briefly. "Even he did not think he could protect me. The next day I told Lorenzo I would marry him."

My first reaction is fury at Shylock for frightening his daughter so. He should have — then I hesitate, for I realize I do not know what Shylock should have done. Locked his daughter in the house and hid the key? She would go mad with loneliness, and even then thieves might break in. Never let her out of his sight? That was hardly feasible, when he had a profession to practice. Frightened away all men who might hurt her? Unless they owed him money, they would never fear him. Revenge any pain she might have, to show others they should leave her alone? He would end up in prison and she would be on the streets.

Jessica tilts her head to one side. "I suppose he might have considered it love to keep the windows shut as he did, and rarely let me out, that I might not experience what he did. But it just made me more eager to get away."

"You said, earlier, that he became _more_ spiteful," I say cautiously. "Was he not always so?"

"He always scared me when he was angry, which he often was, but — when I was a young girl, we would play. I would hide, and he would seek me out, and we would feed the pigeons." She smiles briefly. "He would even help me up and soothe me when I fell and cried. Of course, later I would never cry in front of him."

"He's odd, now," I say slowly. "I was sick, for much of the time I stayed with him. He insulted me so often and so much that I hardly noticed, at first, that he was giving me help. 'Tis as if he can only care for someone if he does not call it that."

Jessica stares at me. "You think he cared for you, then?"

I start, realizing that my own words had seemed to imply as much. "No, of course not. I know not why he did as he did, but I am sure it was not from any attachment to me."

"Has he — has he learned to be Christian?"

"Well, he attends church every Sunday. And sometimes stays to talk to the priest who instructs him."

"Then I suppose...I thought for awhile I could not afford to even speak to him, for it would shame me. Now I wonder...I know not why I even think on him. He would not see me."

I question that, in my mind. But I say nothing. The last thing I want is to cause Jessica more pain, if what Shylock said to me was untrue, or if he has changed his mind.

Jessica rises. "I must see to dinner. If there is aught I can do, I hope you will let me know." She stops a moment, then goes on. "I thank you for telling me of my father. I know not what to think of it, but I thank you." She leaves the room.

What am _I _to think? I believed once that I was a pious man. At the very least, I repented of and confessed my sins, and did my best to help those in need. Those are the greatest good deeds, I thought, the most important ones. But it is growing to seem that the small vices do more harm than the greatest virtues do good. Before, I would have given little thought to a joke about pork in the house of a former Jew. I would have doubted that a foot meant to trip a moneylender was important. I would have been sure that a simple religious conversion could solve everything. And if there was aught wrong with those opinions, well, I had virtues enough to make up for them.

Shylock's sins are great. He committed usury, once thought to cut out a Christian's heart, and ranted more about the jewels his daughter stole than about Jessica herself. But I cannot forget what is small, either. The money he gave Ignazio for his wedding. The laughter he shared with his friend Tubal. Holding Rosalba's baby, however crossly. Opening his door to me.

I understand none of it.

**Author's Note**

Disclaimer: I have absolutely nothing against Antonio/Bassanio as a pairing, and often read it myself. The fact that _Usurer's Mercy, _and subsequently _Friday Night Candles, _put a rather unhealthy spin on their relationship does not change this. But said unhealthy spin means there will not be that variety of slash in this. (Folks shouldn't have trouble finding any if they so wish, it's all over the fandom, though the fandom is admittedly rather small).


	3. Food and Prayer

**Author's Note **

In addition to some point-of-view changing, there is also a time-jump in this chapter. I've tried to make all this as clear as possible.

I am no expert on Renaissance Italian names or naming customs, but if anyone wants to know my rationale for the non-canon characters, they can PM me.

The Merchant of Venice quotes in this chapter are from Act I, Scene III, and Act III, Scene III, respectively.

Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

**Chapter 3: Food and Prayer**

**Shylock**

Fortune is a double-crossing whore. I spent years walking the Rialto resenting the badge I was forced to wear to identify me as a Jew. Now here I am, walking through the ghetto to dine at Tubal's house, passing those of my former faith, and I'm shamed by its absence. That seems to brand me, to proclaim to the city that I gave in to the Christians, that I cared more for my own life than for my God.

I know not if people are truly staring at me or if 'tis my imagination. It could easily be the latter. 'Tis not out of the question for Jews and Christians to dine together, for people of either religion can sometimes be persuaded to choke down the other's food when business calls for it. But I never shared meals with those I lent money to — I did wish to keep kosher, but just as much I needed to feel there was something they could not make me do.

_"I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you."_

So much I said to Bassanio, that day we agreed to the bond. But now I have taken food and drink with Ignazio and Antonio and Rosalba, Christians all, and I must at least pretend to pray in church. I hate myself and the world in equal measure, for making a liar of me. And I can never again feel entirely comfortable at a Jewish table.

I knock on Tubal's door, and in a minute or two Naomi opens it. "Come in, Shylock. I'm so glad you are here."

"It was good of you to ask me. If you had not, I might very well have forgotten that polite behavior existed."

"Do you lack courteous company so very much?"

"My company these days consists of a servant who has nothing worthy to say and says it anyway, his wife who constantly stares at the floor, a fretting baby, and a priest who keeps trying to save my soul. You and Tubal are my only hope."

Naomi laughs, leading me to the room where the food is laid out. "Well, we are glad to be of help."

I know Tubal's children by sight, from before we drifted apart. His eldest was married not long ago, but the next two are here. They are regarding me warily, which shows good sense on their part. Naomi goes to arrange the wine cups. "David, Rachele, greet Signor Shylock."

There are a good few moments of silence before the girl — Rachele — speaks. "You are welcome here, Signor. I hope you — I mean, we do not have..." She trails off. The boy, David, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"I do not know what is taking Tubal so long." Naomi's brow furrows. "When I left the study, he promised he would come down shortly. If you consent, I will go see if there is trouble." She vanishes, and I am left alone with two children, who have most likely heard all the true rumors about my bloodlust and a great many false ones besides.

Rachele glances at her brother, who folds his arms. "This is foolish."

"Thou _said_ thou would'st ask." She raises her eyebrows. "Art thou afeard?"

"No one scares me," he retorts. I frown in confusion.

"Well, art thou going to prove it, or not?"

"Fine!" David glares, then turns to me. "Did Father really throw perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo once?"

I stare at him, the question completely unexpected. "What?"

"See?" David elbows Rachele. "'Tis just a tale. Father's too dignified to do anything like that. Thou owe'st me thy slice of sugar cake, the next time Mother makes it. A wager's a wager."

"I hope thou drop'st it in a puddle," Rachele grumbles.

Despite the surprise, a half-smile tugs at my mouth. "If thou hadst a wager on it, it is thee who must forfeit, David. Thy father threw several perfumed eggs at Signora Calvo, before he knew thy mother. I fear he ruined one of her best skirts, and she never forgave him for it."

Rachele grins. "I _do _love sugar cake."

"Why did I ever agree to this?" David groans.

"Oh, do not sulk," Rachele orders him. "Think about it. Father might understand now if thou throw'st eggs at Signora Calvo's daughter."

David turns bright red. "I — I just said she was pretty! Everyone knows that, 'tis not just me. Her eyes are brown and her hair is green — I mean her eyes are green and her hair is..." He looks helpless as Rachele starts to laugh. Though I sympathize with him a bit, I almost cannot help but join her.

The door opens again, and Tubal comes through with Naomi. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting. 'Tis only—" He glances between the three of us. "Have I missed something?"

His son covers his face in embarrassment as his daughter clutches a hand to her mouth to smother the giggles. I cover up my own near-laugh with a great deal of fake coughing, which arouses an offer of water from Naomi.

An outsider would no doubt say our meal passes pleasantly enough. But I find it marred, not so much with discomfort at our religious difference as with jealousy. Though I would be loathe to admit it, I desperately wish I could have had such a family. And I'm not such a fool as to entirely blame my lack of it on Leah's death, though that was no help.

The people sitting at this table are not afraid to show love for each other, through word or deed, and thence, I think, lies the difference. I may be capable of love, but the idea of expressing it seems as foreign as the lands to the East, and as far away as the moon.

**Antonio**

The door is locked. I checked it three times. I _know _'tis locked. But I have to put a chair in front of it before I can relax. A ritual that is becoming increasingly familiar.

Being back in my old house has done me little good so far. I avoid my bedroom like the plague. In truth, I sleep on the floor with a blanket, as I did in Shylock's house. It feels safer, which is ridiculous. And I'm not eating much.

I think of Bassanio far more than is probably good for me. I wonder if he and Portia have reconciled. They will at least pretend to, I am sure, to the outside world. And she might forgive him, if she can only see how much he adores her. Anyone who thinks 'tis impossible to love two people at once has never met Bassanio. I know it frightened him to think of letting either of us go, and I did not mind being occasionally put aside for Portia. But Portia has her own mind and will, and I doubt she would consent to be abandoned, even temporarily, so that her husband would not have to decide between us.

At the moment, instead of staring at the wall, I am staring at the accounting ledgers stacked in my study. Those who carried my merchandise to Venice have long ago found other work, and those who bought from me have long ago found others to supply them. I have enough money to live on for awhile, but I must begin rebuilding my finances. Frankly, having that task is a relief. If it were not necessary, I fear I would do nothing at all.

I hear strange footsteps nearing my door and try to keep myself calm. I wrote a few days ago to an old friend of mine, whose knowledge of the market I trust. No doubt that is he, come here today to inform me of what has happened in the two months I was gone. Which means I must pull myself together and play the host — and start by getting that chair out from in front of the door.

My hands are shaking, but I brace myself and open the door at the knock. 'Tis my friend, as I expected, but to my surprise, he's not alone. Two others are with him, a man I vaguely recognize but whose name I know not, and another who must be his son, so alike do they look.

I order myself not to show fear at the sight of strangers, and smile at my friend instead. "Vicenzo, I'm grateful you have come. It has been too long." I stand aside to let them in.

"I'm just relieved you are recovering." Vicenzo looks at me, clearly concerned. "When a man is sick for so long, most despair of him, and you still do not appear entirely well."

"The sickness has left me weaker, but it itself is gone," I reassure him. I'll just have to get used to half-truths when it comes to my condition. "Will you make your friends known to me?"

"Of course." He indicates the older, slightly familiar man. "This is Signor Marino, and this, his son, Signor Facio."

"We do not mean to intrude," Marino says, "but when Vicenzo mentioned he was to meet with you, I asked to come along. He and I..." He stops and glances at Vicenzo. "But he will speak of it, no doubt."

"And you will be glad when he does," Facio says cheerfully.

Soon the four of us are seated with cups of wine, and I look at Vicenzo. "Now, you must tell me what has happened on the Rialto, and how I may continue my business. There is no need to hold your tongue in the presence of your friends. Speak the truth of it, even if my prospects are poor."

Vicenzo sighs. "I wish I had better news for you, my friend. But though the market is good, I fear you will have difficulty. 'Tis not only your sickness, 'tis that you told no one when you departed to recover. Some lost money when they did not get what you had promised, and they were less than pleased."

I tap my fingers on the side of my cup. Wine is not nearly as pleasant to me on an empty stomach. "My reputation was already called into question when I lost so many ships eight months ago." At the time I had been so worried about having my heart cut out that I had not given much thought to my good repute.

Marino nods. "But if I recall correctly, you received news not long after that some of your ventures had paid off?"

"Yes, but I fear that both these failures, so close together, will go hard with me." Now is not the time to be thinking of how hungry I am, especially since I am fairly sure that if I had food before me, I could not eat it.

"No need to be saddened, for you will soon see improvement." Facio beams. "My father and Signor Vicenzo have an idea that cannot fail."

Marino gives his son a fond-but-exasperated look. "To which he is not obliged to agree."

"Now you have made me curious." I smile at Vicenzo. "Is this another of your experiments? They have paid off well enough in the past."

Vicenzo sits forward. "Some of those who buy from me have recently become interested in Venetian glass. I should not like to lose their business to other merchants, but I am not so well acquainted with that market. I recalled that you had traded there often, but of course I knew not how to find you."

"You wish for advice? That I am glad to give."

"I wished to partner with you, as it happens. The problems encountered before were none of your fault — in fact, your sense in such matters has always been sound." Vicenzo glances at his companions.

Marino opens his mouth, but Facio jumps in. "You must agree! There is nothing like this plan, nothing."

His father clears his throat pointedly. "I had a mind to finance this venture, provided Vicenzo found a partner who knew something of the business. What think you of it?"

The idea excites me immediately — I have as much pride as any Venetian in the glass we create here — but I will not gain by being hasty. "I'm glad to offer any assistance, but I must consider carefully whether to partner with you or not."

"I think the better of you for it," Marino replies.

"'Tis an excellent venture," Facio says confidently. "It shall turn a great profit. You will agree to it, I'm sure."

We speak at some length before Marino and his son bid us farewell, using the evening meal as their excuse. When they are gone, I turn to Vicenzo. "I do not know Signor Marino as well as you. What conditions is he likely to lay down, if he finances this?"

"Only reasonable ones," Vicenzo reassures me. "But I would advise you — do not mention the bond you had with the Jew."

"I am hardly likely to. Risking my life for a loan was foolish, no matter how sure I was I could pay."

"No, that is not the reason. I heard him once compare moneylenders to diseased and dying rats, and say those who deal with them are little better. You did not make a habit of consorting with Jews of any kind, so I would not worry overmuch. But bringing it to his attention before he grows to know you well would be a poor idea."

"Then I shall keep silent over it." I take another sip of wine and try not to make a face. "I did not like to ask while he was here, but — why did Signor Facio come along?"

Vicenzo laughs and shakes his head. "Marino is tutoring him in how to conduct business. He means to give him money of his own, so he may try his hand at something small before he is trusted with matters of more import. From what I can tell, the only lesson the lad has learned so far is to praise his own ventures beyond what they can possibly deliver."

I chuckle. "I was like that once. Any trade excursion I dealt in was sure to pay off, no matter if those wiser than me had tried the same strategies many times to no avail. But with luck, he can weather any losses with that cheerful disposition."

"I only hope you are right." Vicenzo suddenly frowns. "I know Facio well, and though he's kind, he does not react well to disappointment. He has lost friends, I fear, over naught but a game of dice, for he will strike them if he loses too much money."

"All young men have their faults. No doubt he will learn." Now I'm truly hungry. Now is not the time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. Actually, there is never a good time to be thinking of Shylock's cooking. "How does your wife do? And your children?"

"Very well." Vicenzo positively grins. "My eldest son has begun to swoon over the girls he sees at church. Every week brings a new heartache, depending on whether his current love has favored him with a glance. In my opinion, he is too young to be thinking of such things, but my wife says I was probably little better at his age."

I think, briefly, that Vicenzo's son is lucky. That age brought only confusion and panic for me, when I realized my desire lay with men, not women, and the sin that was. "You must commend me to your family, all of them."

"I will indeed. Shall I call on you soon, to hear your mind on this venture?"

"Please do."

The moment Vicenzo is out the door, I shove the chair back against it, and consider eating something. Instead I fetch my Bible and try to pray.

It does not work, though, and I should have anticipated that. I have perused the Bible frequently these days, searching for the comfort it once gave me. But the more I read, the more it seems the scribes who recorded the word of God cannot decide if He intends to punish us or forgive us. One verse insists that we should demand an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, another proclaims we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us.

If it were not the Holy Word, but an ordinary book, I should be inclined to believe the author's mind was as addled as Ignazio's. Verily, I should even wonder if that was fair to Ignazio. However, it _is_ the Holy Word, and I am not sure how I should go about obeying it. As such, I gain only confusion, when what I hoped for was guidance. Rest.

Shabbat.

No. I'm not going to think about that. I should not be looking to a Jewish ritual to bring me peace, especially when celebrated by a man who's supposed to be Christian. Whom I forced to convert to Christianity, and flattered myself by imagining I had saved his soul. Unfortunately, it seems fairly obvious now that I did it out of spite.

I know not why merely lighting candles, hearing Shylock speak words I do not understand, and eating bread — challah — made me feel safe again for a few short minutes. If we were to do it again, perhaps I might be able to solve that puzzle. But we never will. The best I can hope for is to pass Shylock in the street.

And why does that not seem like enough anymore?

**Three Months Later**

**Shylock**

"A tavern brawl."

Ignazio winces as Rosalba washes the blood off his face. "Yes, Master Shylock. But a very small one."

I take stock of his injuries — split lip, black eye, lump the size of an egg on his forehead, and a nose that appears to be broken. "Pray thee, how many people were involved in this 'small' tavern brawl?"

"Well, there were the three men I was drinking with, and then one of them had two friends, and then the man whose ale I spilled by accident, and then the tavern-keeper's wife who threw me out into the street. There were a few others, but they do not matter because they did not actually hit me."

"Thou art calling that small? Was thy mother a fool, that she did not teach thee to count past three?"

Rosalba's face is twisted with worry. "Thou could'st have been badly hurt, Ignazio. Why didst thou not leave when it began?"

"I, well..." Ignazio stares at the floor. "I began it."

_"Thou _began it?" I stare. "What insult would make _thee _take offense?" The only response my own jibes seem to get from the man is a wider smile.

Ignazio tries to wave a hand casually, but 'tis made rather harder by his split knuckles. "It matters not." He glances at Rosalba, who is wringing out the cloth she was using and does not see. "But a trifle."

I'm about to demand a complete explanation when there is a knock at the door. "Shall I answer that?" Rosalba asks.

"Continue to tend thy husband. I shall see who 'tis." I leave the kitchen, go to the door, and open it.

An unknown man stands there, distress plain on his face. "Are you Signor Shylock?"

"I am. What would you have with me?"

"I have a message from my master, Signor Tubal. He and his wife entreat you to come to his house the moment you can. They are in need of help. I know not what has frightened them so, but—"

"Fear not, I will come." Turning, I walk back to the kitchen. "I must go out. If anyone else comes for me, send them away." I do not wait to see my servants' response before I stride from the house, the messenger following in my wake.

Though I question the messenger repeatedly, he has no further information, leaving my imagination to run wild. What would scare Tubal and Naomi that they would attempt to conceal from their servants? Some scandal? They are hardly the sort to become involved in anything illegal. And though 'tis true we are more friendly now, why would they trust me? I have never been known to bring health and joy to anyone's doorstep.

Finally we arrive, and the messenger shows me in. I grow even more alarmed when I see them. Tubal is pacing, his jaw clenched, and Naomi has tears dripping down her face. "What has happened?" I demand.

Tubal stops, gripping the table. "Shylock, I helped you search for your daughter once. Help me search for mine."

"Rachele? She has run off to be married to a Christian?" The girl can hardly be more than twelve.

"I only wish she had!" Naomi wipes her eyes.

"Then what is it?"

"A man came to me two months ago for a loan." Tubal is obviously trying to stay calm, but he's doing a poor job of it. "He was to pay me ten days ago, our bond says it clearly. Though he is young, his father has money to spare, so I did not suspect any trouble."

"And certainly nothing like this," Naomi says. "We have dealt with reluctant debtors before, but..."

"When he put me off over the debt, I made inquiry," Tubal continues. "His father cannot stand Jews, much less moneylenders, and is unlikely to provide anything. When I found it out, I told the young man I would take him before a court if he did not pay me soon."

"And now you wish for my help finding your—" I stop, horrified. "What has he done to your daughter?"

"We know not." Naomi swallows, trying to control herself. "She walked two streets away to visit a friend yesterday and did not come back. This day the debtor sent a man here to threaten us over her."

"I have offered to recant the bond," Tubal says. "But he has not yet replied, and what he may be doing to her now..." He stops, then continues. "I would call up the law on him, but I fear I would not be believed, and that he would hurt her if he knew of it."

My hands curl into fists. This must be a nightmare from hell for them. And yet I feel utterly helpless. "But what can I do? Whoever this man is, I am sure I have no hold over him."

"You are a Christian," Tubal says. "Verily, we have no plan. But whatever little you can do, it is more than we can."

So that is why they called me. If 'tis possible, I feel more trapped than before. Christians with power plague me worse than carrion flies, and the fact that anyone might consider me one never occurred to me. And as a result, I know not how to _think_ like a Christian with power. A little water and the words of a droning priest cannot reverse the way my mind has worked for years.

"This man would laugh at me," I admit. "No matter my faith, I'm not trustworthy. I have made enemies of everyone who might help you—" I halt abruptly, remembering words spoken in my kitchen three months ago.

_If anyone tries to hurt _you_ — more than they already have, that is — I'll help you, if I can. You have only to ask._

No. I would breathe smoke in hell for a thousand years before I would ask Antonio for anything. Consent to be in his debt? The thought almost makes me sick on the spot.

"I would do anything," Naomi whispers. "No matter how small the chance was. I need her back."

Do I not owe it to them to at least ask? I cannot be sure he'll say no until he says it.

No. I will _not _go crawling to that man's doorstep, not for anything. The world can go up in flames all around me before I shame myself like that.

Rachele is a girl, an almost-certainly-petrified girl in the hands of a desperate debtor. Does my pride truly matter?

"I might try — I doubt it will work. I do not wish to raise any hopes. But I can think of nothing else."

"Try what?" Tubal asks.

"Do not ask me. I will do nothing to increase Rachele's danger, or yours. But to tell it would ruin my courage, I fear."

"Then I will not ask."

A thought occurs to me. "I must carry your bond. Will you fetch it for me?" I know perfectly well that my word alone will never be enough. Tubal nods and leaves the room.

No sooner has he gone than David bursts in. "Mother, why do you not tell me where Rachele is? Why do you not let me leave the house?"

"Thy sister will be home soon." Naomi is clearly trying to convince herself as much as he. "But thou must stay safe until then."

"If anyone has hurt her, I will kill them, I—"

"Be quiet," his mother orders. "Thou must never speak so. I have no wish to lose thee too."

Tubal comes back with the bond and hands it to me, then lowers his voice so David cannot hear. "If you can bring him to accept money, do not spare it."

"I will do what can be done, I promise." I glance at Naomi's tear-stained face and suddenly cannot stand to be in that room one minute longer. Gripping the bond as if 'tis a key to the city, I let my feet carry me out the door.

I force myself to walk swiftly, out of the ghetto, through the streets, but the farther I go the more ridiculous my chosen strategy seems. There is no reason to believe that Antonio's words were spoken in anything but carelessness. And besides, any claim I make will be suspected as just another extension of my own viciousness.

Guilt hits me hard, then. I do not regret my hatred; much of the world richly deserves it, in my view. But when enacting my revenge, I did exactly what they expected of me. Jews lust after Christian blood, they said. Jews have not a dram of mercy in their cold hearts, they said. Jews are dogs, they said. For Tubal and Naomi, for David and Rachele and so many others, those words are so untrue 'tis laughable. But for me?

If ever a man lusted after Christian blood, I did. If ever a man had a heart hardened to pleas, I did. And as for being a dog — I had said I was one myself, the day I called up the jailer. _"Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause. But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs."_

I had become what they said I was. Now, Jews who were good people were depending on me to be their advocate. And I fervently wish I had never tried to take revenge, not for my own sake or the sake of my enemies, but for that of an innocent girl and her family. But I cannot change what I have done.

Suddenly Antonio's door is looming in my face. I know if I stop and think about what I'm doing, I'll just run away. So I do not think. I shove all thought aside and knock.

The seconds I wait feel like minutes. I shift from foot to foot as my courage drains away. Then the door creaks open, and a servant stands there. "Greetings, Signor. Are you here to see Master Antonio?" He suddenly frowns. "Pardon me, but you do not look well."

"I'm not," I say shortly. "Is thy master here?"

"He is meeting with his partner about their business." Reestablished himself already. I would be irritated, were I not so busy being afraid. "I fear they cannot be disturbed now, but if you do not mind waiting—"

"No need to wait," a strange voice calls from inside. "Our work is done." A fashionably-dressed man with a bit of grey in his hair appears, holding what look to be contracts, and speaks over his shoulder. "My friend, you have another guest."

"I'm glad to — Shylock? Why are you here?"

Antonio emerges from what appears to be a study. He appears slightly less tired, but the low-level terror has not gone from his eyes, and he's still unnaturally thin. I kick myself for even noticing, much less caring. And he looks as if I have grown two heads. "Are you mad? What are you doing in my house?"

It truly was madness to even try this. "Wasting my time, apparently. Thank you for your _many courtesies." _I glare at the man with the contracts. "May you have better profit than I from your dealings with him." And with my one plan abruptly crushed, 'tis as if I'm back at the night I found Jessica gone. My head spinning in terror, my mind providing images of every horror a man might visit on a girl he had reason to hate. The voices in the room suddenly seem far away.

Then I find myself sitting in a chair with only the vaguest idea how I got there, and Antonio is gripping my shoulder. "Shylock, talk to me. Are you sick? Hurt? Talk to me, curse you!"

The words tumble out of me almost before I realize it. "I need your help. Send your friend away, I cannot speak of it before him."

"You need my help?" Antonio looks completely stunned. "You despise me."

"'Tis not for my own sake I'm asking. Will you hear me?" Even as I speak, it feels ridiculous. This will not work. But for a legal technicality, I would have acted the butcher and cut this man's chest to pieces in the open court. And he's had months to forget any kindness I might have done him, and to regret any words he might have said about helping me. Then I realize Antonio is speaking.

"I will hear you."

**Reviews/comments are much appreciated. **


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